Chapter 4

Joseph went quiet on the other end of the line, his breath catching for a brief, telling second.

Then his voice came back warm and unmistakably pleased. "If you've made up your mind, then it's a new start. You've kept yourself locked away far too long, Isabella. Are you free tomorrow night? I'll book a place. Consider it a welcome-back dinner."

"Alright. See you tomorrow."

Thousands of miles away, in the Sinclair Villa back in the States, the night felt unnaturally still.

Every hallway, every room sat in a heavy, breathless quiet.

James sat alone in his study, leaning back in a wide leather chair. He hadn't bothered with the overhead lights, leaving only a floor lamp glowing dim and amber beside him.

His hand—long fingers, knuckles tight—held his phone as he stared at the blank message thread with Isabella. Nothing new. Not a single word.

Three days had passed.

Three days since she'd left that signed divorce agreement on his desk.

In the past, if she went more than half a day without seeing him, she would send a string of gentle, almost fussing messages: asking if he'd eaten, when he was coming home, sometimes attaching a few pictures of Jasper in a clumsy attempt to win some warmth from him.

"Playing hard to get." He let out a low, cold laugh as he tugged at his tie, a flicker of disdain passing through his eyes.

Where could she possibly go?

She hadn't worked in six years. Every part of her life had revolved around him and their son. A full‑time homemaker cut off from the world for this long had nowhere to land outside The Sinclair Family.

She'd be back within a week. He was sure of it.

By day four in Tech Harbor, Isabella had fully slipped into a life without the Sinclair men. No endless chores. No sharp remarks from Jasper. No cold, unreadable stare from James.

She woke up when her body felt like it, not when someone else needed her. Her mother's homemade porridge warmed her mornings. Even breathing felt easier.

After her welcome dinner with Joseph, Isabella officially joined his architectural firm as Design Director.

In her bright, spacious office, she studied the files Joseph had sent over—several major upcoming projects. Her focus sharpened with every page.

Joseph tapped on the glass door and stepped inside with two coffees. He handed one to her with a small grin. "So? Spot anything off in those plans?"

"The circulation is way too rigid," Isabella said as she accepted the cup. She picked up a red pen and circled several areas without hesitation. 

"If this is supposed to be a commercial arts center, it can't just feel grand. The lighting strategy and movement flow are weak. I'd rework the western load‑bearing grid and open room for a sunken outdoor gallery."

Her thoughts came fast, organized, sharp. The confidence in her eyes belonged to a designer who knew exactly what she was doing.

Joseph watched her with open admiration that eventually softened into something warmer. "You haven't changed at all. The moment you get a blueprint in your hands, you turn right back into the design genius you used to be."

Isabella paused, staring down at the red pen. A faint, wry smile tugged at her lips. "There was a time I thought I'd never draft again."

"Gold doesn't stop being gold just because it's covered in dust," he said gently. "I'm putting you in charge of the core project. We'll sync as often as you need."

For the next two weeks, Isabella poured herself into work.

She and Joseph traded ideas nonstop, sometimes staying in the conference room long after the office had emptied. 

Their old rhythm returned effortlessly. Technical terms she hadn't used in years resurfaced like they'd been waiting for her.

And during all that time, her phone stayed quiet.

No one from The Sinclair Family reached out.

Even the message she'd sent the housekeeper before leaving—reminding her about Jasper's food allergies—went unanswered.

No call from James. No text from Jasper.

Her absence meant nothing to them. Maybe it was even a relief.

Once that truth settled, whatever lingering ache she'd carried finally dissolved.

She visited a well‑known law firm in Tech Harbor's Town and met with the attorney she'd contacted earlier.

"Ms. Tudor, I reviewed your agreement," the attorney said, pushing the papers back across the desk. His gold‑rimmed glasses glinted as he looked at her, clearly surprised. "You're giving up all marital assets? And waiving custody?"

"Yes." Isabella leaned back. Her voice was cool, steady. "I don't want anything. I just want it over."

"Legally, the document is extremely clear. If he signs it—or if we serve it to him through the court and have it validated—you'll be completely free."

"Understood." Isabella stood. There was a clarity in her eyes that hadn't been there for years.

All she needed was James's signature.

Then she would finally be done.

A week later, in Downtown Tech Harbor's Financial District, Joseph's firm was competing for a major multinational arts complex. 

To make an impression, Joseph planned to deliver the first proposal himself at the client's regional headquarters in the Amber District.

"Isabella, this client has a tough reputation," Joseph said in the car, handing her a thick stack of reports. "I heard their global CEO flew in today to review things personally. If we win him over, this deal is ours."

"Don't worry. Our design's solid. The spatial dynamics and human‑interaction concepts are strong." Isabella flipped through the documents, calm and focused.

The car rolled to a smooth stop in front of a gleaming skyscraper.

Isabella stepped out.

Long gone were the plain cotton dresses she wore as a Sinclair housewife. Today she wore a tailored white suit that hugged her waist, a black silk blouse, and her hair pinned in a sleek twist. Black stilettos added eight centimeters of quiet authority. A deep red lip completed the look—bold, elegant, unmistakably her.

For the first time in six years, she looked exactly like the Isabella who once stood on stage accepting design awards.

"Ready?" Joseph asked, openly impressed as he motioned her ahead.

They followed the assistant up to the top‑floor panoramic conference room.

"Mr. Miller, our CEO has been waiting for you," the secretary said, opening the heavy door.

Isabella lifted her chin and walked inside, heels tapping sharply across the polished floor.

A man stood near the massive floor‑to‑ceiling windows, his back to them as he finished a call. His suit was jet black, perfectly fitted. His presence—tall, controlled, severe—radiated a kind of cold authority that filled the room even in silence.

The moment he heard the door, he ended the call and turned.

"Mr. Sinclair, this is Mr. Miller from Northstar Architecture, and their Design Director—"

The secretary's voice faltered mid‑sentence.

Because the air in the room had shifted, dropping instantly to something brittle and freezing.

James stood by the window, staring straight at Isabella.

Shock twisted in his eyes, raw and undeniable.

Was she Isabella?